


Wet Wednesday Afternoon in June

by dedougal



Category: Berlin Stories - Christopher Isherwood
Genre: Crossdressing, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 15:31:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/pseuds/dedougal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>From obstinatrix's prompt. Comment fic.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Wet Wednesday Afternoon in June

**Author's Note:**

> From obstinatrix's prompt. Comment fic.

She's trying to make me love her. I would if I could. I'm afraid that we're stuck on fond and there's nothing else to be done. There's something Cole Porter playing on the gramophone and it's old-fashioned - startlingly so - for such a modern girl. Maybe she's dancing again. She hasn't done that for a while.

I should go up. We are being very very good friends again after we weren't. She forgave me in deeds and words but not in eyes and heart and all the false face hiding what false heart doth know makes me tired. More tired than wandering the streets near the club, finding fewer and fewer of the people I once was on nodding acquaintance with. Those brown-shirts. Max used to joke that a man in uniform was always worth watching and I do. I do. But not the way Max would.

There are still soft-eyed boys who wear their hair too long and beckon with clever fingers. I would like one of them to have dark hair and green eyes and call me by my name in an accent that's more in common with home than the harsh stutter of my name, the odd emphasis, that these Berliner give it.

My Sally - my darling, sweet girl - should be a boy. We'd be debauched and perfect and heartbroken and cruel all together. 

She's stamping on the floor now. "Come here!" That's how I want my name said. But she would need to be he and those needs have no place in a green and pleasant land.

There's a figure lounging on the bed. Gone are curves in all the wrong places. Instead a boy, dark haired, dressed like one of Gershwin's louche heroes lay there. "Well?"

It is Sally's voice, and Sally's face and Sally's begging eyes. She wants me to love her and I want to. Rain smatters against the too thin glass. Wet Wednesday afternoons are the very worst. Sally rises up, onto trouser clad knees. "Is it not darling? The very latest apparently."

I'm torn. She's asking for a promise of something and it's a promise I have no hope of keeping. But tomorrow she'll have moved on, found a new man, a new lover, his name dripping off her tongue like honey. And I'll be just the same, boring old me. Then Sally parts the front of her shiny black trousers and a stiff cock, as obviously false as her strapped down chest and top hat, hangs there.

Part of me is repulsed. It's a mockery of clever fingers and dark eyes that only pretend to be soft. I've no money left to buy them drinks or to pay for their favours. There's always a chance this might work and I might end up being able to keep the promise I think the evening sunset might try to make. As I bend over the end of the bed, exposed and opened, it feels empty as she tries to fill me.


End file.
